


It's Raining Outside

by Leg so Hot You Can Fry An Egg (orphan_account)



Series: Grillby my side [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: ALL THE FLUFF, Bad English, Crack of the dawn, Cute, Cute Ending, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Foreign Language, Friends to Lovers, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gift Fic, Grillby's, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Bad At Titles, I'm Sorry, More Fluff, Multi, No Smut, One Shot, Or not, Other, POV Second Person, Piano, Post True Pacifist Ending, Post-Pacifist Route, Post-True Route, Rain, Reader Is Not Frisk, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Romance, Silence, gender neutral reader, part of a series, reader is shy, reader is they/them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 12:20:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6610489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Leg%20so%20Hot%20You%20Can%20Fry%20An%20Egg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Happens after the barrier between the Underground and surface is broken]<br/>You were kicked out of the inn during the crack of the dawn because someone thought you did something, and you had to wander through Monster Town by yourself without an umbrella. Good thing you knew a certain bar, but... It was closed...?<br/>(This fiction is a gift to a friend of mine; happy birthday, DerpingAtDeviantArt ;D)<br/>I'm bad at summaries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Raining Outside

**Author's Note:**

> So, I took "It's Raining Somewhere Else" as inspiration and... Yep. There was also Jonsi's "Tornado", but none of them play any important role on this fic (after all, this isn't a songfic since I simply dislike doing songfics) since you can picture Grillby playing whatever song you want him to. Even if it's this one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WUApfIsWAE0  
> Anyway, happy birthday, Derpy c;

 It was a rainy night in the Monster City. The streets were empty, leaving you alone with the whispering wind and raindrops. The lampposts sparkled a faded yellow, whose colour formed visible light fields in the gush of water that the sky poured.

 It would be a lovely sight…

 … If you were inside your house drinking coffee or admiring the sight under an umbrella.

 Once again, you were gifted by nature in the exact day you left your umbrella and your jacket at home, having to face the hostile weather with a simple coat, a shirt and a pair of pants. Long story short, today wasn’t your lucky day, and to make everything worse, it was Sunday, day which the shops closed earlier than usual and the roofs of the doors where lowered.

 You were destined to walk in the middle of the rain alone; what an incredible situation.

 Searching with restless eyes for a place that could be used as a shelter to wait until rain stopped, you shivered to every raindrop that touched your skin, trembling while walking on the sidewalk without anyone close to help you. You had tried to calling help before, making phone calls for Sans, Papyrus, Toriel and even Undyne; but destiny _really_ wanted to see you walking under the rain, and your cell phone was with no signal because of the storm.

 There weren’t many options available right now, and you were already wondering if all of this wasn’t a plan from some kind of entity trying to make you suffer; you have already heard about creatures like that – ghosts, tsunderplanes, creatures lost in space and time –, but never thought about something like that. Maybe they wanted to revenge your disbelief in their existence (happily unexisting by now).

 Before any more weird theories could come to your mind, you saw your possible “rescue” three quarters away, emitting a weak orange light on the street corner; there, contrasting with the dark weather of the rain and cold air of the crack of the dawn, was Grillby’s small orange bar.

 The vision made you smile, the memories of a long time of friendship with the man made of fire coming to your head and making you feel nostalgic; the poker nights with the royal guards, the talks with Dogamy and Dogaressa, the comforting air of the bar…

 … And Grillby.

 He was the main reason why these memories existed: if it wasn’t for his presence, probably you wouldn’t even have tried to enter the bar. It was an almost obvious fact that you liked the bartender, but you preferred to hide it under a warm friendship to avoid any awkward situations.

 And avoid, as well, burns in your skin. God only knew what those flames could do to you, and you never tried to discover because of both fear and shyness.

 It was a pretty known fact that you cherished your personal space; you felt nervous when someone invaded your “bubble”, reddening easily and having trouble with your words. There were many times in which people believed you liked them, taking your shyness as a synonym to love. Actually, you were just shy, being able to keep talks with people (if they started the talk, obviously) but not being able to keep touches.

 Maybe that was the reason why rain wrapped itself around you so well, but that doesn’t matter.

 Speeding up your steps, you tried to reach the crosswalk quickly, but rain just got stronger and stronger. You were already feeling tired about it, and the weight and coldness of the raindrops made it harder to endure. You ran to the other side without even consider reaching the crosswalk, bitterly regretting it when you stumbled on the step of the sidewalk and fell onto your own hands, smudging your pants and hurting your hands.

  _Oh, marvellous._

 Raising up, you cleared your hands on the wet coat you were wearing and kept running through the sidewalk, focusing in the bar that now was one quarter and half away from your position. The place was your light in the dark, your end of the line on a long race.

 You were almost reaching it when---

  _Shit._

 The plate that stayed on the door was turned to the “closed” side; how late was it to even Grillby’s bar be closed?

 You didn’t care about it, the light was still turned on and there was music playing in the place. Maybe Grillby was listening to music while cleaning the bar; after all, the old jukebox was there to be used.

 When you got closer to the door, though, the music became clearer. It was a delicious instrumental, caressed by the piano keys and chords of violins. It had a rainy mood on its melody.

 Closing the space between you and the door, you lifted your arm, ready to knock on the door, when you finally noticed: that song wasn’t on the “playlist” of the jukebox.

 You widened your eyes when you noticed it; you wanted to open that door and try to catch a dancing [or singing] Grillby, but you controlled yourself; entering there without any kind of alert mid-starting of the dawn wasn’t something _subtle_ to be done, nor right.

 … Maybe other day you could do it.

 Positioning your hand on the doorhandle, you tried to be as noiseless as you could be when you tried to spin it; you expected it to be locked, mainly because Grillby wasn’t in “working hours” anymore and also because it would be risky to leave it open.

 To your surprise, though, it was unlocked. How lucky!

 Pushing the old wooden door slowly, you placed your head carefully in the small gap you opened; maybe you could see a dorky Grillby dancing or singing while he cleaned and organized everything (though the second option seemed much more nice than it should be since you almost _never_ heard that divine voice talking).

 What you saw went far from that.

 There, in the small stage where the musicians usually sang, was Grillby, sitting on a small bench while playing the old piano that there stood; on his side, a small, fiery figure [apparently made with magic] played the violin.

 The sight was magnificent; who would’ve guessed that the bartender knew how to play piano (and, of course, the violin, played with such mastery by a fire being controlled by the man himself)? And the keys pressed had an incredible sound, reaching their quality apex within the symphony.

 You were so caught up by what you saw that you hadn’t even noticed the water drops falling from your face straight into the floor; their sound was enough to make the man made of fire notice your presence.

 He stopped playing abruptly; the magical figure on his side disappeared in the same instant, and the bartender turned in a swift movement to look at what was peeping him by the door.

 The sudden movement made you jump scare, backing off a bit and hiding yourself behind the door like a small child meeting their relatives for the first time. Grillby, although having not backed off, seemed to show a similar reaction, changing his orange colour to blue in seconds and—oh God he was blushing.

 Raising himself up, Grillby closed the piano lid and cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed by the situation; he turned to your direction, apparently looking at you for a moment, as if silently asking you what happened.

 Instead of answering with words, you opened the door, showing the state you were; it was obvious that, if you didn’t take these clothes off soon, you would catch a cold or even a flu.

 Seeing your state, the flames on top of his head raised a bit, demonstrating his surprise. In fast steps, he reached for your figure at the door and gestured to let you enter.

 You were not sure if you should, but in the current situation you were, it was better to accept the hospitality without complaints. He closed the door behind you, once again gesturing something to you; this time, he meant that you should take your coat off and give it to him.

 “… No” you answered, knowing perfectly well what happens between fire and water.

 He stared at you for a moment, knowing exactly your reasons. Though he hadn’t a face, you clearly could feel the intensity behind his “glare”.

 “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t” he spoke, his voice as calm as the fire under the star peppered sky. It was a warm, cozy and husky voice, connecting innocent characteristics with the desire of wanting to hear it saying obscenities during an intimate moment.

 Voice that made your back shiver; it wasn’t noticeable since you were trembling with cold, but you knew perfectly well the reason.

 “Grillby, they are wet. It can hurt you” you said in a whisper; oh, if you knew how he liked to hear you saying his name.

 He stretched his arms in your direction anyway, waiting for your coat; he was willing to do it if that meant that you wouldn’t run the risk of being sick.

 Relutanctly, you thought it was better to not protest; it was already late, and it wasn’t worth a discussion since it was already two – or was it three? – A.M. Taking the coat off, you didn’t give it straight to him: you wanted him to get something so to make sure he wasn’t going to get hurt.

 Apparently, he also thought it was too late to argue, and grabbed the cloth on the table to receive the vest. You were still wearing wet clothes, but at least your arms – and upper part, since it wasn’t covered by two layers of wet vests – were not covered under soaked sleeves.

 Grillby seemed to stop  for a moment, thinking; you were wondering if he was pondering about the time you decided to “visit” the bar, but when he turned to get something on the upper floor, you soon realized it had nothing to do with it.

 Rubbing your arms trying to warm yourself up, you looked once again to the piano; you were reviewing the scene, now understanding the reason why it always looked clean, wondering why the man of fire never tried to perform in front of anyone.

 A small smile crept upon your lips. It’s obvious why he wouldn’t play in front of other people: he was the bartender, and just like you, he was shy. The difference between his shyness and yours is that he only talked with people he felt close to; Sans was one of these people, and you were the other.

 Before your mind could wander any more in the facts – and your smile grow, for that matter –, Grillby came back with a robe on hands.

 Wait, he didn’t mean it, did he?

 Giving you the robe, he guided you to the door of the bathroom of the bar.

 “Change yourself on the bathroom”.

  _Oh no, he meant it._

 Your cheeks flushed for a moment; it was like he was asking you to be naked on his bar.

 You gave a desperate look to him. It felt like you were silently asking him “what do you mean?!”, and he got it.

 The idea, on the other hand, made him chuckle for a moment. _There’s nothing funny on it, Grillby._

 Scratching absentmindedly the side of his face, he pointed for the stairs, answering your silent question:

 “There’s another bathroom in my apartment, if it’s better for you”.

 It didn’t made the situation better, but it was still more comforting than using the bathroom _of the bar_.

 You nodded, deciding to use the bathroom upstairs. It surely would be cleaner and bigger than the other, but the situation was still awkward. Going up the stairs, you looked once again to the common area of the bar, noticing that the man of fire was drying the floor you had soaked.

 You couldn’t help but smile; Grillby was, indeed, a gentleman, not even complaining about the time of your arrival, the state you got there or the water puddles you left on the floor. He simply _understood_ , having all the patience in the world with you.

 Too bad you were only friends.

 Finishing the stairs, you faced a set of doors in front of you. Oh, right – you forgot to ask which door was the bathroom’s one.

 “Hey Grillby, which one’s the bathroom’s door?” you asked, the cold water warming slowly on your body.

 “The first in front of the stairs”.

  _Ohhhh that voice._

 Anyway, he should’ve been busy to simply say it instead of pointing; obeying the command, you opened the door and entered, turning the light on before locking the door.

 It was weird to know that you were at Grillby’s “house” trying to run away from the rain and not the opposite, having to wear one of his robes because your clothes were too soaked to be used; even weirder than that was the time these events were happening, all of this because of an incident on the inn you were—

 --Well, nobody wants to know it. Not now, at least.

 Trying to take off your clothes without making any noise – we all know how wet clothes make… _strange_ noises –, you decided it was better to remain barefoot since your shoes were as soaked as any other piece of clothing you had, as well as your socks. You thought about taking your undergarments off as well – but it would be **_extremely_** awkward and even disrespect with the poor man. After all, you were still _friends_.

 … Yeah, friends. The thought made you sigh in sadness; why monsters and humans couldn’t simply accept their differences and make love with each other by the four corners of the---

 The knocks on the door cut you mid-sentence. You normally would feel annoyed if it was any other person, but knowing it was Grillby, you knew it wasn’t a “hurry up” knock, but an “are you okay?” one.

 Heh. It’s funny how the bartender could, silently, be more poetic and gentlemanly than 90% of the men and monsters you met. It was such a politeness that you even felt impressed.

 You wrapped yourself on the robe and took the wet clothes; the robe was bigger than your size, having sleeves longer than your arms and an end that reached your heels. It didn’t impress you, to be honest: Grillby was taller and had larger shoulders than you anyway.

 Unlocking the door, you found him waiting for you with a basket – that held your wet clothes inside, by the way –. The bathroom light contrasted with the bartender’s flame, but only the latter left you in awe by such beauty.

 You two remained in silence for a moment. It was extremely common seeing you two to doing that, since, under the silence, you two said the unsaid and did the impossible; the silence was your Alexandrine poem.

 Grillby seemed to avoid looking at you, and the reason was obvious. Sticking his hands out, he asked once again for your clothes, and this time you didn’t protest: if he felt good about it, then why would you try to avoid it?

 He took them with certain care, not showing pain nor burning your clothes. Putting them on the basket, you finally realized that his fire wouldn’t burn anything if he didn’t want it to do so.

 Before your poem of infinite verses could carry on, though, a question escaped your lips, almost making you regret it:

 “How long do you play the piano?”

 It took him by surprise; the bartender placed the basket on the floor and rubbed his arm, his movements showing tiredness. You thought he would say it there, breaking the silence by mere seconds before letting it continue its poem…

 … But he didn’t do it. Instead, he decided to let the rain answer it, simply gesturing so to you follow him down the stairs.

 You could question about it, raise an eyebrow or simply say “no”; but remembering how he was comprehensible with you, you decided to do the same for him.

 Following him, you both returned to the common area of the bar. Grillby pulled a chair for you, silently asking you to sit. You did so, setting yourself comfortably on it and waiting for him to do the same for himself. You thought he would explain everything by the table, telling it as an old tale that no one but him knew.

 However, Grillby didn’t do that. Instead, he simply went once again to the stage and sat in front of the piano in a short and modest act, placing one hand on the keys while he opened the lid with the other.

 You weren’t entirely sure about what to say, but once he looked at you expecting something, a phrase came to your mind. It was like he was asking you what music you wanted to listen to.

 “Play the one you were playing before I got here”.

 He nodded.

 “As you wish”.

 Soon, the sweet sound of the piano filled the room. By Grillby’s side, grabbing the violin, a magical fire started to play along, making the entire world sound calm to you.

 It was like rain completed the harmony of the musical set. In a small amount of seconds you were already closing your eyes, listening – no, _feeling_ – the music better.

 That answered all your questions, opening only one: if Grillby knew how to play piano professionally, then why did he prefer to work on the bar?

 Thinking about it, it was better that he worked on the bar: if he didn’t, then you probably wouldn’t have met him and wouldn’t even be on the actual situation.

 And being honest, you really wished this moment never ended.

 The music came to a point in which you couldn’t take it as something outside you, and soon you were wrapped entirely by it; when you least expected, you were already by the side of the piano, watching Grillby’s skilled hands working on the keys.

 He seemed to notice your presence; his flames turned slightly blue with that, and you couldn’t avoid the smile that crept on your lips.

 His fire went indigo blue with it, and he ended up missing some notes, stopping instantly.

 You looked at him with curious eyes; what happened?

 “Grillby, are you ok?” you asked, coming closer. Although you were a person who valued personal space, you placed your hand on his shoulder.

 He flinched for a moment, but then relaxed. Sighing, he patted the free side of the bench, calling you to sit by his side.

 You went without batting an eyelid. It was something you wanted to do anyway.

 “…Tell me,” he started, looking at the piano keys, “do you know how to play it?”

 You were indecisive for a second; well, that was straight.

 “Not really” you said, a bit ashamed by that. “But I always wanted to learn”.

 He turned to you. His colours came back to normal, and a curved white line appeared where his mouth would be; he was smiling at you.

 “Let me teach you, then”.

 Grillby explained the notes, the order and how every note sounded and how they sounded when played together. He demonstrated everything, as if he was teaching a baby how to walk.

 You could feel the affection under the explication. It was an inexplicable sweet feeling, and the company he represented to you was magnificent. You felt as if, slowly, you were addicting yourself to the man of fire.

 And that was an addiction that didn’t make any harm to you; instead, it only made you feel greater.

 “Very well” he spoke, clearing his throat right after, “I will teach you a song”.

 With his left hand, Grillby played a small order of notes, and you noticed they were the same from the music you saw him playing before, but simpler. Seeing him playing piano so close was much more beautiful, and soon you were so distracted admiring him that you weren’t even paying attention to the notes.

 “Now, try playing it”.

 The sudden voice took you out of your hypnotic state; what is it?

 “Uhhh…”

 You placed your right hand timidly on a random sequence of notes, trying to cover up you lack of attention. You thought it was convincing and that Grillby was only waiting until you started playing it, but it was the complete opposite: your hand was close to the La when it should be on the Re.

 He chuckled. Sticking his right arm behind your back, he took your hand and placed it on the right sequence of notes. The gesture had made the distance between you two close, and soon your head was almost touching his shoulder.

 The bartender didn’t seem to notice; you did.

 Replicating the sequence of notes in the octave your hand was positioned onto, he guided your hand through the notes; it was warm like the air around a campfire, being cosy and friendly.

  _Everything on him is cosy and comfortable_ , you thought.

 Paying more attention this time – with difficulty, since you were _literally leaning on the man_ –, you let your hand wander by itself, soon creating your own version of the next part of the song.

 What you forgot, though, was that Grillby’s hand was still on yours. Noticing the naturalness of your movements, he let you carry on, feeling impressed by the confidence held inside you in some parts of it.

 Your version of the sequel wasn’t exactly tuneful, but it was your own Soul speaking through music; why would Grillby want to screw up this moment?

 After all, you soon realized what you were doing and your hand came to a halt. Looking at it, you noticed that Grillby’s hand was still on top of yours.

 Your first reaction was to turn to the side, but your eyes didn’t go to the right, empty side; no, they went to the left, right at Grillby, and you saw how close your face was to his. He was looking at you, serenity visible on his face (or lack of it).

  _Oh, if you interrupted the silence_ , said the sweet nothings you always wanted to, **did something**.

 Your faces were slowly getting closer and closer…

 Until you both went away from each other abruptly, going to different sides. Your hand separated from his, and the distance, which was almost non-existent, now became big and uncomfortable once again.

 And the rain talked for you, filling the emptiness that separated you two.

 “… I’m sorry” you spoke finally, looking at the window. Your face, at this point, was as red as a pepper by now.

 “Don’t be. It was beautiful to see you playing”.

_Grillby you damn hunk._

 You looked once again at him. Before you could speak, though, a yawn escaped your lips.

 “I think you should go to sleep” he commented, already raising himself up to guide you to the spare room he had. “You must be tired”.

Before he could go, however, you stopped him, holding his arm. He turned around, surprised.

 “Please, stay” you said, a small smile plastered on your face. “At least play one last time. I didn’t see you playing the entire song”.

 He sighed. Seeing that face you did surely had affected him.

 “… Okay”.

 He sat once again; sticking his hands on the piano, he played the same tune from the time you got there a third time.

 And this third time was better than the other two; maybe because you were closer, watching every movement he made closely; maybe because you could see the flames on his head dancing and turning slightly blue.

  _Maybe because you finally forgot your shyness for a moment and leaned your head on his shoulder, act that explained the blue on the flames of his face._

 The combination of rain and music made you sleepy, and Morpheus’s sand soon made your vision blurry. It was a relaxing combination, to say the least.

 Your eyes closed slowly, the world turning into drops of a rain of images. You soon didn’t know what was real and what was your mind forming your dreams, but you didn’t mind it.

 And because of that confusion, you swore that the arm that wrapped around you fondly was just your mind playing with you, as well as the sensation of a pair of lips pressing against your forehead and a hand caressing your hair.

 Before you could fall asleep, however, you heard a small “goodnight, my dear”.

 You thought it was probably wrong; but only the rain knew it was not.

 And yet again, you didn’t listen to the entire song. But that didn’t bother you.


End file.
